


For the North (Game of Thrones AU)

by maireeps



Series: A Song of Fire and Ice - Game of Thrones AU [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura & Lance (Voltron) are Siblings, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Barebacking, Body Worship, Feral Behavior, First Time, Flirting, Game of Thrones-esque, It's easy to read if you've read the first part - you don't have to watch the show at all, It's just a dump of medieval political strife with Love, Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Half-Siblings, Keith is King in the North, Knotting, Lance (Voltron) is a Badass, M/M, Nipple Play, POV Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Power Bottom Lance (Voltron), Service Top Keith (Voltron), They have feral characteristics of their houses, Topping from the Bottom, Victory, War, Wolf Instincts, Wolf Pack, and so, dominance play, dragon instincts, on the eve of a bigger war, period-typical barebacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maireeps/pseuds/maireeps
Summary: If his immediate reaction was to stand, his chair nearly toppling, and toss back a full goblet of wine before stalking off, leading the Targaryen prince from the feasting hall, who would stop him? The victorious eve after battle, a feast held in his own halls, after his men fought so well, and his blood had been so high he had barely a thought in his head chopping through undead walker after undead walker, who would stop him?And if that prince was pliant, soft, open under his lips, who would stop them?-A first time between the King in the North and the Dragon Prince, a romp that just might challenge fate.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: A Song of Fire and Ice - Game of Thrones AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1186823
Comments: 25
Kudos: 319





	For the North (Game of Thrones AU)

**Author's Note:**

> oof this is a long time coming. a huge first shoutout to rachel, @somethingmorecreative1 for being such a helpful semi-beta/great writing pal to help me with my confidence in posting this!!! a second huge shoutout to kali, @melancholymango for rlly amping me up to finish writing this and posting it - 
> 
> and a third huge shoutout to taylor, @taylortot for being one of my favorite artists and absolutely making me scream when i saw she had bookmarked the series!!! 
> 
> thanks you guys for waiting so patiently and i hope everyone is safe and well!

For the North  
☨ A Song of Fire & Ice - Game of Thrones AU ☨

* * *

  
  


His men rode hard. A company of only twenty, but twenty of the finest. The bite of winter stung his cheeks, exposed against the cold air of the North. The ships from Dragonstone would be pulling into the harbor of Eastwatch, Bay of Seals, where their wartime encampment stood. It had only been a half-moon since the White Walkers had torn down the Wall at Eastwatch, scrawled by their white Beasts and led by the Night King. Thace Lannister said it best, to think of these crawlers as mindless would be the fool’s way, and though the men of the Blades and the brothers of the Night’s Watch that rode with him hated it so, they agreed. Allura Stormborn had sat motionless at the head of the war table at Dragonstone, crumpling her dress sleeves under her fingers. She had then folded her hands amongst her robes and met him with a fierce gaze, “We strike where they have stricken us.” 

And by the Gods, had Takashi talked his ear off about her wisdom after. As bashful as he had been only hours before, the ride before Eastwatch sobered every man in the company. Takashi’s gentle face had melted, steeled to match the scar stretched across his pale visage as they came into the Bay of Seals. 

The fires burned against the Wall, not blue but red to torch the Walkers and stall them in their march. The encampments of Eastwatch were riddled with peaked tents of Dothraki, the rows of sleeping arrangements of the Unsullied, all amongst the lines of Northern men and the Wildings. It was a sight to behold, a fearsome hundred thousand men to stand against the undead advancing behind the Wall. 

The horses slowed at the camps, and Takashi ordered the men to fan out. Keith kept with him his brother, the Braavosi knights Ulaz and Kolivan, a few other of the Blades and Brothers he knew closest. Not a word was said, yet they stayed only steps behind out of habit and loyalty. It was the moments in the wake of war where he felt the flankment was the only comfort he could possibly indulge in. 

As they reached the pier, the Dragonstone ships docked, men shouting and springing into action. He dismounted, followed by Takashi and his men, as the heads of Dragonstone descended onto the docks. Keith handed off his reins to a man nearby and placed his gloved hands on his belt and sword, iron-toed boots thumping against the weak wood boards to meet the Targaryen Queen. 

Allura Targaryen was utterly rolled in thick wool, the fur of a gray-white cat bundled across her shoulders Northern-style, her hands wound tight amongst her robes. Shay beside her looked miserable, in gray-black robes of heavy full fabric, her deep brown skin washed by all the snow-white of the North. Thace Lannister strode forward before them all, reaching quickly to clasp arms with Keith before moving onto Ulaz and Kolivan, friends from his time beyond the Great Grass Sea. Behind Allura, a vision cut against the white snow of the North, was Lance. 

The Prince stood willowy and tall, skin gleaming like marble and draped in thick woolen grays and a short side-cape of deep blue. It was the first he had seen the Dragon Prince in armor, which gleamed with scale-like patterns under his cape - pauldrons and arm pieces making up the entirety of his right arm, which shoulder a bow and quiver of moonstone. A short sword hung at his side, and he swept up behind his Queenly sister as fiercely as she stepped, head held high and eyes turned to the Wall. The Prince did not look his way until his sister’s voice called, firm and short, “Snow.”    
  
“Targaryen.” He barked back, and Takashi winced beside him, a second away from cuffing his ears. 

The Targaryen Queen instead smiled broadly, teeth and menacing, amused by him. He returned the grin, all fangs and good-natured wolfish smirking. They had an odd bond. They had not seen each other, or more specifically, he had not seen her younger brother since the nights at Winterfell and that had been cut short with war preparations. Lance had sat at his side in his ancestral hall, glory, and glamour, all for a measly hour or two before Takashi tore him away. And now they stood on the battlefield, with the impending mass of the undead clamoring onto the shores Lance’s sister hoped to rule. Lovely. 

They walked on and on to the front. Crowds of the armies of men followed the Targaryens’ silver hair like beacons, of hope, valor, strength. He could sense the morale of the armies, cold and dreary, around them swing. Anger and hunger fizzled when Allura Targaryen swept her robes before her and turned to them, back to the enemy, a hand on the sword on her hip and her brother Lance Targaryen at her side. Keith could not stop himself from his eyes trailing to the Targaryen Prince. 

Those deep blue eyes shone with brilliance, fierce and burning, fixed on his sister. But when Allura’s voice rang true, Keith turned to the Targaryen Queen. 

“We ride on the dead,” She called, “for the men who have laid down their lives before you to stall them with the fires behind me. We ride on the dead for the Northern men and women who are lost to their ranks. We ride on the dead for a promise to our children and children’s children that no dead may walk on this ground again, this ground is for the living. Ride.” 

Lance Targaryen whistled piercingly, and from the sea, the great five dragons of the Targaryens flew. Blakoz, Qyssys, Aekison, Ayredi,  _ Vyron _ \- in brilliant colors against the winter sky, and the armies around him roared with them. The heat of Dragonfire dripped sweat on their brows, and men surged forward to clash with the undead. 

He wouldn’t see a hint of the Dragon Prince throughout the battle, and he wasn’t sure he could’ve even if he did. Blood and the dark dust that exploded from white walkers rain down on the battlefield until it clouded the very air and his men had to rely on the light of Dragonfire to keep visibility on their enemy. The night grew dark around them, and only did he see the beast Ayredi, pushing wings of stunning white glow through the air, arrows shot from her back in a never-ending crescendo. Only then did he release the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. It was the bloodiest battle he had been in since the fall of the Night’s Watch since they tried to pin him to the snow and make him return to it, long before he met the Targaryens. 

Clash of steel after clash of steel, he fought side by side with his men until his hair was drenched in sweat, his legs were hardened and hollow of feeling, and even Kosmo breathed heavily at his side. He had relied too long on the wolven characteristics of his house, even so much as to call to his half-brother from across the field with sharp barks and howls. It prickled the ears of his men, and they responded in kind with yells and howls of their own, repeating the call like a certainty - they would win. 

They did. 

The Night King fell heavy at Allura Targaryen’s feet. Blakoz ripped the helmet and head off of his shoulders as the other dragons descended around them, the beat of wings barely loud enough to beat out the war cries of the Wildings, the whistling victory of the Dothraki, the howls of his company. With a solid strike through the heart, Allura Stormborn stole the quintessence from the body of the undead king and let his dust melt in the fresh snow. Her face was split in a gleaming grin, she had won against the Night King and secured the support of the North. 

And he would give it to her. 

That night, in Winterfell, he did not bend the knee to Allura Targaryen, but he did stand at his family’s head table, the Twin Dragons beside him, as he told his men they would fight for the Targaryen throne. 

They cheered not just because they had to, but because they were still fresh off of the victory over the Long Night, and who was he to deny them when the drink was rolled in, the meat cut fresh, and they tracked into the feasting hall, finally allowed to indulge. And by the Gods, he did. 

He was halfway through scarfing down his fourth whole steak when Takashi threw a sharp elbow into his ribs. He sputtered, choked, the blood of the deer trailing down one side of his mouth, the picture of a beast not a King, “Wh-at?”    
  
Takashi’s eyebrows twitched and he nudged his head. Keith looked up, and across the feasting hall. Lance Targaryen looked at him incredulously, lips pulled up in a half-smile. Those glistening eyes jumped from Keith’s eyes to Keith’s chin. 

He furiously wiped the blood from his chin whiskers, and Lance laughed loudly and heartily. He couldn’t hear it over the roar of the hall, but watching how the laughter crinkled his face, all soft cheeks, pitched eyebrows, eyelashes crinkled in merriment. Allura turned to her brother with an odd look, her advisor Shay also curious, but Lance waved them off. Then he stood. Gone was the armor, it was back to silks. Long, gorgeous white silks that caught and clung to every inch of his skin, translucent in the firelight in where it really counted, betraying strips of tan arms, a delicately smooth chest, the rise of nipples. Thin delicate ropes of gold were laid across his chest and shoulders, accentuating the broadness of them, and the careful swell of his chest. Keith ached. 

And then he nearly choked again when he realized the Dragon Prince was striding this way. Long legs confident and crushing his chest of breath, unfortunately, cased in a white pant that suffocated those shapely thighs unfairly. Keith was sure the effect of the silks would be tenfold without those pants. He ran the back of his hand across his face again and wondered if he should have shaved. 

“Do I smell bad?” He hissed to Takashi. 

“Always.”    
  
He groaned lowly, and Takashi laughed. He shot his half-brother a severe look but abandoned the easy fight by standing and greeting Lance Targaryan as the prince came forward. There was a bit of hesitation between them, it had been a while since they talked. But Lance’s eyes shone as he gently bent at the waist in a half-bow, dipping his head to Takashi as well. 

“Good evening, my King,” he was all silver-tongued and Keith wanted to kiss him hard on the mouth, “I’ve heard of how bravely and fearlessly you fought. My sister is no doubt pleased to have such a powerful ally.” 

Takashi cut in quickly, his third cup of drink in his palm and his ears flushed, canines peeking, “He fights like a pup in heat.  _ Somehow  _ it works.” 

He reached over blindly and chuffed his brother against the side of his face with the back of his glove, lightly but with a half-growl. Takashi laughed heavily, and waved him off, standing and offering his seat beside Keith to Lance. 

The Dragon Prince barely hesitated and it pleased him to no end seeing those fine silks in the seat beside his. He thought of the ancestral Winterfell throne, placed haphazardly but perfectly next to the seat at Dragonstone and willed the blissful image away before he gave himself any false hope. Even before, a moon previous, the younger Targaryen could not stay through the feast and did not take a seat beside him that night as Allura had called him back to Dragonstone. Lance’s priority was his sister and their family legacy. The wolf inside Keith whined pathetically as he sat back in his seat at the head of the hall. A servant scuttled forward and placed a new and full goblet in Lance’s hand, a simple wood and silver one that Keith  _ wished  _ desperately had been the gold that the prince deserved. But Lance paid no mind and sipped from the cup happily, his cheeks already a bit rosy. 

Keith found himself leaning in just as the Targaryen prince was. 

“I am glad we could finally sit beside one another,” He said, swirling the cup, “although I hope I did not interrupt your meal.”    
  
Keith flushed, he could tell. Look at him, King in the North and blushing like a child. The steak on his plate was forgotten, and Kosmo, on his other side, was eagerly sniffing over the table towards it. He placed a hand on his direwolf’s nose and pushed him back, tossing the Dragon Prince a lopsided feral grin, all canines. 

“A wolf gets hungry after a battle,” he said, simply, low. 

Those blue eyes dazzled, and the response set a fire in the deep of his stomach, “...Does he?” 

If his immediate reaction was to stand, his chair nearly toppling, and toss back a full goblet of wine before stalking off, leading the Targaryen prince from the feasting hall, who would stop him? The victorious eve after the battle, a feast held in his own halls, after his men fought so well, and his blood had been so high he had barely a thought in his head chopping through undead walker after undead walker, who would stop him?    


And if that prince was pliant, soft, open under his lips, who would stop  _ them _ ?    


The first kiss was all teeth, and the space between them disappeared quickly as they pushed into a narrow space hidden from view in the battlements. He finally found a time where his furs were too much, with Lance Targaryen pressed against his chest radiating like the warm, living being he was, and those full lips tight between Keith’s teeth. There was a soft sound, but he couldn’t tell who it was from, his head was spinning so. He realized his hands were hovering in the air, purely hesitant to touch those silks as if Allura would be rounding the corner into the battlements at any moment. 

His lips felt seared when Lance pulled back. He was breathing hard, flushed, hands fisted in the straps across Keith’s armor, “ _ My King, please -  _ Are you just going to  _ stand  _ there?” 

He stubbornly grasped Keith’s hands and pulled it to his body after a beat too long of Keith’s silence. And fuck it was like he had reached the greatest height he had ever known. Those fine silks bunched under his fingers when he gripped them, and the smooth but strong skin under his gloves made him groan into the space between their mouths. He was right, he could easily fit one hand right around the Targaryen prince’s waist and Gods did Lance  _ moan  _ at that. The next kiss was smooth and open. He followed Lance’s lead quickly, swiping a tongue along his bottom lip and taking fucking  _ delight  _ in the tremble that ran up the prince’s spine. 

Something sharp touched his tongue tip but Lance pulled away before he could investigate, their lips separating with an obscene pop, those soft lips now rosy with color as they spoke, “ _ Gods _ , you kiss sloppy -”    
  
He chased them again, sealing another kiss over those lips and plying them easily apart. Lance’s canines, and the teeth right behind them, were pointed - gently, softly, like a forgotten breath of Targaryen heritage like the tipped ears, but the effect was resounding. He was hard, throbbing against the front of his pants, and it was hard to ignore when they were pressed so close together. Lance shifted and he keened, like a fucking dog, breaking the kiss to drop them along the column of that long brown neck. 

Lance’s laugh was musical and deep, “Already?” But he shifted forward to rock against Keith all the same.

He bit hard, sucking, just under the Targaryan’s prominent jawline and Lance shook with a moan. He loomed over Lance, bending that small waist back and barely grounding himself against the wall at his back. His eyebrows were pulled tight, and Lance was sweet under his lips, as he tried hard to reign himself in - to not let the wolf sink his teeth into the soft flesh under his lips, to not rut in heat without allowing the Targaryen prince a soft bed and warm fire, to not shake and  _ finish _ under the slim fingers that pulled his shirt from his pants and rake burning touches against the skin there. 

This was madness, how this Targaryen fire was threatening to overtake him. He abandoned rationale, like usual, and ripped Lance around - bracketing his slim body with hardened forearms and very nearly making the battlements shake with his strength. He didn’t dare give either of them a moment for breath, diving back into Lance’s lips with the vigor of a man starved. And Gods was he. 

His body armor against Lance’s was crushing, he was sure, but the prince moaned happily when the shell scraped against his pebbled nipples. Keith couldn’t hold in the throaty growl at that, dropping his head to watch the rise of those perky nipples rub a raw red from the plate of his armor alone. He ducked then, letting his inhibitions flee and pressing heated kisses against the silk over those delicate pebbles, between thin robes of gold chain. Lance’s body reacted so sweetly, arching off the wall and legs encircled his hips as he scraped his canines against his chest - ears burning with the act, with how loud Lance moaned, sugared and high in his sensitive ears.

It was quickly becoming harder and harder to not rip the silk under his palms, bunched at the dip of Lance’s waist, and pulled taut across his chest for the extra sensation. Lance shivered, not from the cold, the soft peaked rises from his chest an aching red and pressed flat against the tight delicate fabric. He continued, enamored, obsessed, happy to place well-aimed bites through the satin until they showed in dark marks through it when Lance’s hands scrambled for purchase on the fur around his shoulders and he looked up. 

A deep blush ran across the tops of the Targaryen prince’s cheekbones, and he slid down from his perch on Keith’s hips, still keeping not a hint of space between them. Keith leaned in unknowingly, but happily, placing his forehead against Lance’s. The endearment was not lost and Lance went impossibly pinker. 

“I won’t last,” Lance muttered, almost ashamed as if Keith’s heart wasn’t dying in happiness from the effect he apparently had on the prince. 

Keith fought to think rationally, “...We shouldn’t continue out here.” 

Lance had barely nodded before he pulled them from the wall. They were equally a mess. Lance’s chains hung haphazardly across his chest and he straightened them, but the silk was still pressed close around his nipples from the kisses and bites Keith had left there, and he was sure nearly most of his belts and straps were loosened from Lance’s sly fingers, but he disregarded them and stuck out his elbow. 

There was a brief flight in Lance’s beautiful eyes, all curiosity, all gentleness. He covered it quickly, Keith noticed, but still took Keith’s elbow in an escort all the same. 

It wasn’t completely necessary to walk slow when escorting someone, but he was sure he might be going a bit too fast, boots falling quick on the battlements and guards casting curious looks at his pace. But the way Lance laughed, high and happy, with his cheeks delicately swathed in pink, he could almost wash away the echoing chastising of Lady Stark in his head. When they entered the hallway for the Lord’s Chambers, he turned slightly to Lance before dipping his head towards his own rooms. Lance blinked, wide owlish, like he wasn’t expecting Keith to offer his own rooms - was that uncommon?    
  
He didn’t care. He wanted Lance on the furs by the fire, just like he thought the first time he met the Targaryen prince. He wanted to see the warmth of the fire reflected in the blues of his eyes, and he wanted to kiss the soft glow off his lips, licking like fire. 

The room was cold when he led Lance in, the Brothers of the Watch guarding his door immediately vacating the area - no questions asked - when he cleared his throat at them as they passed the threshold. Lance went easily into the rooms, already kicking off his shoes and parading barefoot across the delicate woven rugs to drop into the plush chair near the wine table. Keith shrugged off his coat and furs, dropping them wherever, and crossing to the fireplace to stoke up the flames. The pelts of ancient direwolves laid across the step before the fire was a House heirloom, furs of grays and russets that were given by the wolven ancestors of the Stark House. He had always been careful not to walk across them in his boots, in fact, only Kosmo really used them, but now he simply couldn’t get over the idea of Lance Targaryen spread across them in sacrilege. 

The flames roared easily with a spritz of hardened whiskey he tossed into it, from a bottle he had left on the mantle, the clink of glass behind him indicating Lance had unbottled the pitcher of red wine. He turned and the prince had settled, at home, in the chair, long legs crossed and nursing a crystal cup in his slender fingers, eyes cast Keith’s way under a fan of gorgeous long eyelashes. His chest caught and he placed his hands down to the sword belt around his hips, unclasping Longclaw from his armor and placing the sword onto the mantle with a clink. Lance’s eyes did not leave him and he crossed to the opposite chair across from him.

The situation echoed, reminding him of Lance in the opposite quarters from a moon ago, where the Targaryen prince teased him within an inch of his life. 

He sat back and almost immediately Lance’s barefoot kicked up and placed itself on his knee. He shot a glance over to the prince, an eyebrow raised, but Lance simply grinned around his glass and raised the ball of his foot against the inside of Keith’s thigh. He tried to ignore how the pressure felt on him, but his cock jumped in his pants regardless and Lance sent a smirk his way. 

“So, my King,” The ball of Lance’s foot pressed suddenly down on his crotch, lining the length of his hard member with pressure. Keith dropped his head and stifled a moan into the palm of his hand, still keeping eye contact with the Dragon Prince as he continued to speak, 

“Would you like to lay with me?”    
  
Keith’s eyebrows twitched, “I don’t just bring people around here for the hell of it, Targaryen.” He winced at his own brashness.    
  
“It’s a fair question,” the prince exclaimed, rolling his startling eyes upwards, “There’s a margin of  _ formality  _ that should go into these things when one’s virtue is about to be lost.” 

Keith groaned, burying his head in his hands as Lance’s foot retracted, the Targaryen laughing heartily at his reaction. 

“Aye - Please,” He barked, muffled by his palms, “Let’s not act like  _ my  _ virtue is the important one here.” 

The room grew silent and he raised his gaze to look at the beautiful man across from him. Lance had turned to look at the fire, his silver hair laying artfully across his cheekbones, picturesque. With Keith’s eyes back on him, Lance peeked back over at the corner of his eyes, polishing off his cup of wine easily.    
  
“Allura knows,” Lance shrugged a delicate, silky shoulder, “I’m not a virtuous prince.” 

Keith leaned back, “She doesn’t know about this. Nae - don’t look at me like that,  _ we  _ both know she would be furious with this.”    
  
Lance blew a short breath out, ruffling his silver bangs, and casting a long look in Keith’s direction, “She would.”    
  
He stood, traveling closer to Keith, and placing his slender hands on his hips just in front of Keith. The wolf in his chest growled in appreciation, the warm firelight throwing the white silks on Lance’s tan body translucent. Lance’s head tilted his way and that, hair dipping in consideration. 

“Actually I think,” he sang, “she would kill you.” 

Keith rumbled, “Great.” 

Takashi would kill him if Allura didn’t. He plopped his head back against the chair, black hair in his eyes, his armor clinking against itself like a gasp of exasperation. The last thing he wanted to do was contemplate the repercussions of sleeping with the man he had lusted over for more than a moon now, especially after that heated kiss in the battlements. Lance’s skin was catching in every corner of his eye, and he couldn’t help but still be worked up by their close quarters, his wolf practically salivating and only held back by a shred of common (and royal) decency.    
  
He was graciously rewarded by his sulking with the bounce of Lance’s weight in his lap. Long tan legs came up to cage his hips in the plush armchair, and all those long silks floated down in his lap as Lance sat down on his knees. The Targaryan prince’s palms came drifting across his neck and collarbone, gently playing with the hair at his nape before they lifted his jawline up. His breathing had gone shallow, and was fully whisked away by the look Lance cast down at him, hair haloed by the golden firelight and easily the sweetest thing Keith had ever looked at. 

He could’ve sighed, and he must’ve because Lance gave him a dazzling smile, all amusement and genuine fondness that made his chest tighten. He cupped the prince’s ass with his hands and pulled them closer together as Lance bent over to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. 

“I can’t find it in myself to care much anymore,” Lance whispered to him, pressing deeper and deeper kisses against the line of his mouth, “Just take me.” 

He snapped. 

How long was he expected to hold out? There was no way his unrestrained and frankly, stupid wolf could not pounce when  _ that  _ came tumbling out of the Targaryan prince’s mouth. Frantic fingers worked on his chest armor as he ran his hands from ass up to that long back, mouths working heavy against each other, tongues languid and sloppy, the silks under his hands - now happily clawed - easily being ripped from the grip alone. 

Lance made a soft whiny noise that he sealed over with a deep bite to the exposed throat there, kicking his boots off to the unknown as he pulled the silks from Lance’s body, this way and that, until just the necklace of golden chains remained and his breeches. He breathed hot and heavy against Lance’s exposed collarbone, panting nearly, as he fisted his hands down to those breeches and pulled the laces through. His breastplate fell away and belts went flying, the slight but heavy chainmail underneath also being shucked behind the chair with a marveling strength from Lance’s willowy arms. He groaned at the action, Lance’s hands in his hair as those nimble fingers ripped the tie out and let his hair free. 

He stood, pressing Lance’s body to his own with a hand tight on his waist, and with the other, all but ripped the pants from the other’s body. 

“Fuck,” Lance cursed low, legs going around Keith’s waist almost instinctually, “I haven’t…”    
  
Keith placed him down on the furs in front of the fireplace, spying his bareness with a happy growl, “Hn?”    
  
Lance looked gorgeous. His face was flushed a ripe stunning color, wiggling in Keith’s grip all soft and pliant - eyes glossy, “...It’s been a while.”    
  
He surged forward and captured those lips again, hands already rough on the supple skin on Lance’s waist, gripping everything he could until his hands slid down the toned lines to his thighs. When he put his hand on the Dragon Prince, Lance nearly wept and stretched, back a beautiful arch at the sensation. He breathed a rough, “Fuck,” in return, and rolled his wrist up and down the prince’s thickness - fingers stuttering in amazement at the silky touch of hair at the base, thin but soft, and he muffled a happy groan against Lance’s chest, taking a pert nipple into his mouth again. 

His head was swimming, the heat dizzying and the echoes of Lance’s soft moans raising every hair on his forearms and back in gooseflesh. He kept his wrist loose, tongue looser as he mouthed heavily at the rise between his teeth. The fluff of hair at the back of his neck was pulled, languidly by Lance’s fingers, a smile peaking between the Targaryen’s lips when Keith spied a peak upward. The tips of his near-canine teeth  _ were  _ indeed pointed, not quite canine-like Keith’s, but so achingly similar his chest felt bursting with a sense of kinship, familiarity. He laved at the Targaryen prince’s nipples with renewed vigor, twirling tip of each pebble with a dedication, sucking the sweetness of honeysuckle fragrance from Lance’s deeply colored skin until all of it sat in his nose ripe and delicious. 

He paid extra attention to the slim member curled in his fingers, tightly winding his wrist in circles so the velvet of slick from Lance’s tip ran hot and sticky down to the base. He was going mad, surely, because the kiss of Lance’s skin on his lips and tongue, and the heat in his palm was sending him to heights he hadn’t reached in many a moon. His own cock throbbed like mayhem in his breeches, pushing against a seam that left him dizzy drunk and nearly drooling against Lance’s chest. 

A palm reached down from the Dragon Prince and rubbed against the front of his crotch, and he snapped a gaze upward to Lance. 

“Touch me,” and that palm trailed between nestled balls and silvery hair until a pulled cheek revealed a deep russet hole. 

He was going to fucking drool. His maw felt wet already. 

Smacking around in the same insistence and blind madness behind him, Lance left the best of him unprotected. Keith could barely hold himself back, already surging forward to lap adamantly at that little hole. It was so small, puckered, and barely at all lined with that silver hair - suspiciously beautiful trimmed in a way that made Keith want to press his nose against all of it. Lance smelled heady, less perfumed, and more natural here, but his tongue tasted nothing but clean, warm skin, pulling his tongue around in slow circles. Lance cursed, loud and pitched wrist seizing and happily spreading his legs for Keith to take more. 

He did, Gods, he wanted it all. He gripped Lance’s spread cheeks, the swell just a small slope against the furs in this position until his fingernails went near-white in pressure. The access was delicious, the sway of Lance’s hips and cock against his head like a crown. He pressed his tongue further into the puckered skin, and drunk in how Lance cried, a falsetto of, “Ah -  _ ah - ah -”  _ that could make men weep. He wrapped fingers around Lance’s swaying tip and rolled his wrist until Lance’s hands came to smack him away, a press of a bottle into his wet fingers. 

“Huh?” Any semblance of thought right now could never produce working speech and he didn’t have the pride to carry at his wrecked and stupid grunt. 

Lance was flushed, trying to get Keith to grip around the bottle stubbornly, “You - use your  _ fingers _ . And this - a generous coating please.”    
  
Lance uncorked the bottle for him, and he let the Dragon Prince dribble oil over his fingers until they were practically dripping with the thick liquid. He rolled his fingertips together and lowered himself down again, circling slow around the puckered flesh until it shone. The Targaryen was oddly silent here, and he glanced up to watch that glorious face as he sunk his tip inward, to the first knuckle, barely dodging the kick of a leg in the process. 

“Careful.” He grunted, the other hand catching the calf - the smooth, spotless skin there tantalizing. 

Lance hissed, “Slower. Gods, I told you it’s been a while.”    
  
He crooked his finger in challenge and Lance went to kick again until he pulled his wrist back, slowly spreading his finger back in again - taking time to feel, press, slick the warmth there. Lance’s lips went worrying each other, pointed teeth on display at the action. His gut felt warmth anew, and he rolled his fingers within Lance again. 

He kept slow, a dedicated pace, even though the stretch around his first finger, then his second, and, fuck,  _ his third _ , was torturous. His wolf groaned a swell against his breeches, weighted and knotted - like he was jealous of his own fingers in some animalistic battle. Lance had long since covered his beautiful hands over his face, mouth a perfect circle as Keith worked him, slow until his own cock dripped along his belly in the firelight, and the tops of his shoulders trembling with the weight of the arch in his back. 

Slowly he retracted his fingers, admiring the looseness of him now and sliding a tongue around the rim.

“Keith Snow,” Lance breathed, hands dropping back down, “if you do not undress and  _ fuck  _ me in the next few minutes - I swear on your Gods and mine -” 

“Aye, aye,” His voice was wrecked, “Quit whining.” 

Unhurried,  _ slow  _ just like Lance wanted, he pulled up his shirt and bit the end so the long fabric wouldn’t hinder his fingers on his britches. He pulled the britches apart, without care for the stitching, and the laugh Lance that tumbled out of him cut off harshly and echoing when he pulled his cock out. 

He was leaking, not unlike he would be when he was going through his first fit of the infamous Stark puberty stints, and the tip was a furious beady red, aching and hard and veiny. His knot was already swollen and obvious, a throbbing seat against his balls that surged with veins and heavy color. He twitched a bit, flushed and embarrassed. He  _ was  _ a pup, just looking at how desperate his own cock was nailed that home. Keith blew out a hard breath between the teeth that held his shirt up. The light of the fire next to them did nothing to mask how red he was, even accentuating the drip of his precum onto the furs in between Lance’s spread legs.

He spied a look upwards, to the prince under him, and froze. 

The pink of the Targaryen’s mouth was wide, his lips parted and eyebrows knit in deep thought, but his gaze was trained and focused on Keith’s unclothed cock. He jumped and the shirt fluttered from his mouth, drifting lazily to cover his exposed chest and abdomen, pillowing around his cock. 

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, “Ah - my Prince?”   
  
Lance jolted out of his stupor and snapped his gaze up to meet Keith’s, eyes narrowed and tipped ears flushed a deep red, “Were you planning on telling me about this?”   
  
He waved a hand toward Keith’s cock and the wolf inside him whimpered, fingers only fluttering inches from his aching length. He was dizzy, confused, “Uh - Aye? What do you -”   
  
Lance sat up on his elbows, the fire casting a glow over the taut muscles of his belly, the lines across his chest, the puddle of his hips against the fur, and Keith was so momentarily stunned at the sight of Lance folded, he barely heard the prince’s snapping until it cut to his ears, 

“ _ You’re huge!  _ By the Gods, were you just going to impale me with that - that thing? I can’t even begin to comprehend that - that… bulge,” Lance sputtered, and turned to the nearby short table, hand searching blindly and body stretched so beautifully as he continued on his ranting, “Oh by the dragons, my sister is going to kill me tomorrow. I will be useless, broken in half! Where is that -  _ damned  _ oil? I need a cup of wine.”    
  
“It’s a knot,” He said, glancing down at himself. 

Lance sputtered, fingers harshly tapping on the short table, mostly now speaking to himself, “Right, how reasonable for the ancient wolven house to have wolven features. What else could I have expected?”    
  
He watched every little movement Lance made, naked skin shimmering as the prince poured himself a goblet of wine, tossing the glass container of oil over his shoulder blindly. Keith caught it with one hand, the familiar glass ridges of it making his cock twitch. He slid forward, tongue swiping across his upper lip as he poured the oil over his fingers again and pressed a deep kiss to the exposed side of Lance’s waist. His cock slid slow and slippery against Lance’s thigh, and the prince shook, nearly spilling his goblet. Keith grinned low and wide, brushing his wet fingers against Lance’s loose hole again and gently sinking in to work him wide once more. 

Gods, he didn’t mind, but his cock was so heavy it leaked happily when Lance moaned under him, fingers slipping against the grove he had been directed to. A gentle press again and Lance’s thighs spread wide, wine dribbling down his chin. He cast a look back over his shoulder at Keith, gorgeously lounging on his side like a dream, sans goblet, his hand wandering up to wipe away the spill. 

Keith caught it, tried not to sink his fingers tight into the frail wrist, and swiped a tongue up Lance’s chin to clean up the wine. 

Lance made a strangled groan but met his lips eagerly, his tongue soft against Keith’s and lips pliant. He started to work his fingers in Lance again, slow and deep, dominating his lips with pressure. Lance was so pliant, his chest hurt. He slid himself closer, his cock brushing against the soft inner skin of Lance’s spread thighs and he trembled. It was such an easy glide, the skin there softer than snow, the touch itself almost too much for him. A tan hand shot down and gripped him, tight and hard around the base, rough against his knot in a way that could send him over. 

He pulled back from Lance’s lips with a pop, the red skin there so heavy with abuse, as Lance spoke, “Don’t - not yet. I - I need to  _ feel  _ you.” 

And if he was close before, he could’ve finished right there. Lance broke from his panic over his size and girth, jumping back easily and happily replacing Keith’s fingers with his own. He worked himself, spread back out, all gorgeous lines of skin tensing and relaxing with the jump of his own fingers. Keith sat back on his heels, watching with slit eyes, feral, as Lance worked deep within himself in front of him. 

Lance blew out a harsh breath and retracted from himself, sinking his fingers into the twine of the fur underneath him and spread his legs further apart, “Keith...”    
  
His cock twitched. 

Lance eyed it with a slit gaze, heat and dominance swimming in them, “So riled up for this. Perhaps your brother is right, a pup in heat indeed.”    
  
“Please don’t mention my brother right now.” He groaned, sliding a hand back through his bangs so the wet hair was pulled away from his sweaty forehead. Lance’s eyes, like gemstones, sparkled with mirth. 

“Well when you fuck me in just a moment,” he said, with no care in the world, as if the words were a greeting and not heavy enough to bring a blush to Keith’s cheeks, “I’d like to request less of a pup in heat.”    
  
“And more of what?” He muttered, looming forward over Lance, bracketing in those wide shoulders with a palm on each side of the Prince’s head. 

Lance looked up, chin tilted, like he wore everything but the sheer nakedness of his skin, on his back against the furs in front of the fireplace, and Keith saw it. He saw the line of a crown on his fair head, saw the gleam of sheer of a Targaryen dynasty in his eyes and didn’t once back down from what that meant - what this meant - their eyes locked. 

“A King,” Lance said, and Keith covered that velvet noise with the press of his tongue and the weight of a kiss. 

They were frantic, hands gliding over wet skin, a kiss so sealed there were soft sounds every time they separated, only to seal back together like a lifeline. Lance palmed him until his knot practically ached from the touch, beading hot slick down against Lance’s own cock - the press of each other mingling breaths of desire and gasps. He slowly pulled his hips back, adjusting as Lance pulled him closer, tucking his bottom forward in a blissful angle - and Gods, he had to avoid staring, but he  _ couldn’t _ as Lance guided him in. 

The first dip into that hole, loose and fluttering around his tip, was akin to the heat of blood. It was blissful in the way that it punched the air from his lungs, the coherence from his thought, the human living alongside his wolf. He pressed a growl against Lance’s throat, ripping himself from those plush lips to scrape his canines against the gorgeously scented column of the Targaryen’s neck, as he pushed in - slow, stretched around him, taking inch after inch of him until all the heat was pooled in his lower abdomen. Lance’s breath came out straggled and ragged in his ear, choking almost until Keith was fully seated, knot throbbing against that ring of flesh - and Lance  _ sobbed _ . 

He rocked them on his elbows, hips nearly stuttering from the exertion of keeping still, his thighs tensed like in battle, Lance under him writhing and tense. Feral, he nuzzled into that neck again to breathe deep, a question and plea. 

Lance hissed, “Use your words, wolf.”    
  
Keith grunted back quickly, voice low and gravelly, “Are you alright, my Prince?” 

Another bout of shimmying under him and Lance’s hands came clasped against his face, holding his cheeks and with his thumbs under Keith’s jawline. He dragged them to face, Keith letting those gemstone eyes absorb him, unable to stop a tiny jump of his hips that sent Lance whining. 

“Yes,” Lance’s voice was just as low, igniting a fire so hot in his gut, “Now - ah, my request, please?”    
  
He breathed out, crushing furs under his fists, Lance’s hands on his face, and he let go. He fucked hard into that heat, hips heavy and relentless, Lance’s body barely kept under him, jumping with each hard thrust. It felt so  _ good _ , so fucking hot, heavy and perfect and everything as he thrust hard and fast into the Prince under him. 

Lance told him the same, voice broken and begging, “ _ Harder - oh Gods, oh my Gods, faster, faster - Ah, so good -”  _   
  
He ground in hard, tight circles, pressing as deep as he could between the utter ramming he pushed forward with - the bounce of Lance’s soft legs against the front of his thighs making a loud lewd sound in the room to accompany their mingling groans. The furs rolled under them, and he dropped a heavy head to Lance’s collarbone, eyebrows knit, groaning and grunting as he chased a dizzying high. One hand shot down and gripped a brown cheek, spreading Lance further as he drove in hard, adding an angle that sent his head jerked backward, eyes rolling at the feeling - 

“Oh Gods -  _ fuck, fuck, Keith - ah, ah, harder please -”  _

The smack of his balls against the back of Lance’s ass was audible, and he tucked forward again to really ram into him, manhandling a leg of Lance’s upward again for that same angle, driving into him with every slam of his hips forward. He was primal, growling under his breath as his knot swelled impossibly large, pushing against the rim of Lance’s hole, the fluttering pressing against him until he was nearly dipping his knot into him, startling them both. 

Lance’s hand shot down and gripped his dick, bouncing his wrist up and down in tandem to Keith’s furious thrusting, “Oh fuck, again -”    
  
Keith ground his knot against him immediately, shoving against him with stuttering hips like a man possessed, Lance’s other arm flying out to grip onto his fringe and tug at it. He growled and abandoned grinding for the same relentless pace - fucking into Lance until the Prince under him was bouncing against the furs with the effort, balls swinging, back arched and working over himself to try and compete with the pace. 

Each smack of his hips sent Lance reeling but the iron grip on Lance’s leg, chest flopping down to press Lance into the fur, he fucked him like it was owed, like all of this was his winnings after war, trapping the Dragon Prince against him until he had to shift onto his knees to fuck into him again - tight and close and wet. 

The decorative chains, golden and molten against Lance’s skin, rolled between them, Keith’s pounding making them little fluttering pieces of jewelry dancing in the firelight. His knot caught on the rim and Lance shuddered - 

His wolf was screeching. He pushed hard again to catch that same feeling, panting heavy and teeth aching to sink into the skin of Lance’s neck. 

When Lance spoke, his voice was destroyed, “Do it, Gods, please put it in me.”    
  
He was too close, too fucking close, knot heavy with seed and Lance widened his hips, pulled that other leg upward and with a slam, he pushed his knot in fully, or as fully as he could. Lance went still, back stiffened and he groaned, whining low as he filled Lance - pump after pump of seed, slick cum spilling into that heat. Lance’s mouth was flung wide in a soundless shout, his own cock spurting against his belly and stomach - a side effect of the knot. He groaned and pitched forward, teeth sinking against Lance’s neck as softly as he could, eyebrows knit and dripping sweat onto the Prince underneath him as the last wave of his orgasm filled him. The tight seal of them didn’t stop the press of dribbles of cum down into the furs, he could feel the wetness seeping around them as his knot slowly pumped to a stop. 

A firm hand came around his throat, a pressure light at first and then gradual, until he was being directed backward, his teeth out of Lance’s skin and their eyes meeting. Where his primal had been to mate Lance, the Targaryen Prince’s eyes gleamed at him with all the ferocity of a real dragon, teeth exposed in a show of dominance. And beyond it all, knot within the man underneath him, he submitted. A swipe of a thumb, sharp at the nail, went across the top of his neck before the choking - which had begun to pleasantly burn his throat and deprive his air - gently dissipated. He was rewarded immediately with a purr from Lance, one that set the eager wolf in him rolling in pleasure and dog-like happiness, and the Targaryen languishingly stretched his arms above him. 

“Ah, I haven’t fronted like that after sex in so long,” Lance breathed, smiling so pleasantly Keith’s chest burned. 

Keith dashed his budding hope away for an easy smirk down at the Prince, “Brave of you to do after I’ve just knotted you.” 

Lance swiped at his chest, “Brave? I earned my right to do just that since you knotted me. How basic for wolves to submit fully.”    


He made no rebuttal at that, sliding down - not so far to tug at the knot still within Lance, but enough to run the lengths of their bodies against each other. They were very different, their ancestral House genes. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it - he was never one to admire the idea of a singularly submissive partner. His intended would be an equal. Perhaps the Targaryens’ way might not have been so foreign to start a war over. 

Lance had found the wine goblet again, stretched long like he was basking as he took simple sips from the cup, eyes slit the brightest sliver of blue. He leaned back to look at the sight, trailing his gaze over the haphazard lay of the golden chains against Lance’s skin, drinking in and committing the sight to memory. His knot was fast softening, and he wiped, with a forearm, across his forehead to rid the drip of sweat from his hair. 

A hum from below, “We should do this again.”    
  
Keith hated how his heart hammered. Possessiveness was already stealing the breath from his lungs, and the Targaryen was not helping. 

“If I am ever seen again after your sister finds out,” Keith responded, black hair flopping in his eyes, “then, aye, we should.” 

The way Lance Targaryen laughed at that left him aching pleasantly well into the night, long after the fire of his chambers had gone out, and long long after the Dragon Prince had gathered his silks, bade him goodnight with the shine of his eyes, and left for a night of war ahead. 


End file.
